


"I thought it was a dream."

by refectory



Category: Moana (2016)
Genre: Angst, Gen, I'm serious about that angst, It's to the point of overkill guys, Moana and Ocean don't have it easy at first, Second POV, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:16:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9067378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refectory/pseuds/refectory
Summary: Moana and the ocean have a... complicated relationship.





	

 

* * *

You are three years old, and when grandmother weaves tales of inescapable death and a creeping darkness that will swallow whole the beautiful green place you know as home, you are the only one who laughs.

It is just a story, and it is a  _good_  one. You like it. There is adventure, there is land, there is water, and there are gods; what more could you ask for? Yes, you like this story and if Gramma is not too busy, you'll have to ask her to tell it again. Papa will be disappointed that he can't soothe you into the dreamland with tales of your ancestors, but that's okay. You know the roots of your family like the back of your hand. You can survive one night.

Heme and the rest of the scaredy–cat boys and girls are screaming, scrambling all over Papa. You'd be jealous if you didn't know that Papa loved you best. As you watch the commotion and cheer at the chaos of it, a salty breeze gently pulls back a tapestry, and you see the sunlight glistening against the deep, beautiful ocean. It is not dissimilar to the way clouds part after a rainstorm, letting through translucent rays of light. Papa calls it the "ladder of heaven."

You think he's onto something there. The ocean sits there, waiting. It's so  _pretty_.

You know better than to get too close to it. Papa tells you all the time not to go near, not even to dip your toes in. "It is too dangerous out there for you, Moana," he says, and then takes you to the groves to you can dig your fingers into the soil and know what  _safety_  feels like. Here, with Papa and Gramma, you are safe away from the rising tide; high up in your island, your feet firm and solid in the rich soil, you are in no danger of drowning.

But you are captured, pulled in, by the ocean anyway.

(At the beginning, there was  _only_ ocean –)

There is a light between the sky and the sea, and you really can't help it. You walk as fast as you can, more eager than you've ever been about anything else in your short years of living.

The waves gently crashing into the shore are hypnotic, like the flickering flames of a bonfire. The sand is warm between your toes. There is a seashell – shiny,  _pink_. You didn't know rocks could  _be_  pink – this is nothing like the treasures the earth gives you: nothing like the carved rocks and bones of the land. The shell is curved and sharp and the most  _beautiful_  thing you have ever seen.

Mom would like it. She is the smartest person you know. She could do something with it, the same way the Elders carve bones into weapons or jewelry.

Then there is a baby turtle being picked on, so you have to help it into the ocean where it belongs and shoo the bully–birds  away the same way Mom does when Alani starts picking apart the baskets. Before you know it, the turtle is safe and the beach is once again quiet, isolated. You are standing at the edge of the water. The water licks your toes and dampens the sand so that your feet sink into it; the earth would never do that. It's too solid.

You might like the sand better.

That's when the ocean opens up and presents you a pretty seashell like an offering; an apology, even, for stealing your pretty seashell away while you were helping the turtle return home. You hear your father, solid and steady like the earth that makes up your island, with roots like trees. He tells you: " _The ocean is dangerous, Moana."_ You hear your mother, quick and playful like a cool summer wind, with her forehead and nose against yours, whispering: " _Don't play near the water, Moana."_

You even hear Gramma – "...the bloodthirsty jaws of inescapable death!" – but she does more to encourage you than to caution you.

And then –

And then, you hear the  _ocean,_ and the ocean sounds like all those voices and somehow even more. There is a family of sounds coming from the water and they are  _calling_ to you. Moana.  _Moana_. 

That is  _you._ The ocean knows your name. It can't be a stranger if it knows your name; and if it isn't a stranger, then it is a friend. Papa tells you that it's rude to refuse a gift from a friend. You pick up the shell.

The ocean opens up like arms preparing for a hug and it gifts you with another, and another, and you add them to the collection of beautiful things in your arms – and then you look up, you find yourself looking into the reef.

And you'd thought the  _topside_ was the wondrous part.

There is coral, something your Papa has told you about, but you don't really get how it can be dangerous when it  _shimmers_  like that. There is seaweed moving with the currents. It reminds you of the graceful hands of the Hula dancers. There is a big turtle swimming with a little turtle – the same turtle you helped.

Forget the  _shell!_  

This – the ocean and its hidden wonders – this is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen; like it hears you, a blob grows from the surface of the water. It is formless, much like a wave would be but without that anixiety-inducing roar as it bears down upon you. This blob isn't like that. It's gentle, and as you look at it you decide that its as confused about you as you are about it.

You tilt your head–the blob tilts back.

It arches over your head. You hear the words ' _unforgiving ocean'_  somewhere in the back of your head, but you block out that voice. You poke the blob. Water splashes in your face. You laugh. The ocean styles your hair, gently placing your flower at the top. It's like playing with Okalani. The only conclusion you can make is that the ocean must be your friend now. In fact, it's a better friend than Okalani is: it has given you seashells, it has reunited the baby turtle with the mommy turtle, it has styled your hair. It isn't just a friend; it is your  _best friend_.

"Moana!" Papa calls. Your head turns to follow his voice. The ocean crashes over your head and washes away its careful styling, carrying you back to the shore on a piece of driftwood. You skid onto the shore, flower in your hair and a seashell against your chest. Your Papa calls again: "Moana!"

You run towards his voice, into his arms, and while he holds you and pretends you aren't soaked through, you pretend that you don't see the look he sends the beautiful shining water.

"Moana," he tells you, "you shouldn't run off like that."

He's worried, so you tell him exactly what happened. The ocean isn't as bad as he thinks. You know it. You  _know_ it.

* * *

Papa doesn't believe you, so you tell Mom.

"And then, and then, the ocean – it opened up, and it showed me a seashell! So I picked it up – "

"Oh, you did?" Mom replies, juggling the basket in her arms so she can catch another coconut. "Did you bring it back for Mommy to look at?"

You think hard on this. You're disappointed with the answer. "Sorry, I forget," And it's a genuine apology. Your mom is the best person in the world. If anyone deserves those pretty seashells, it's her. Mom gives you a fond look, and you take it as permission to continue telling her the story even though you lost your shell.

You tell her everything. About how the water called to you, about how the waters opened up, how you could see the coral at the bottom of the ocean floor and the turtles swimming together, about how the water stroked your head and tied your hair up. You tell her all about your new best friend and it's unusual aquatic nature.

You're breathless with excitement when you finish. You want to go back to the water, show Mom exactly what you mean, and hope she will let you.

But Mom laughs, puts her basket down, and presses her forehead against yours.

"Your stories will always amuse me, Moana," she says, and the automatic smile that came onto your face from her proximity fades at the use of the word 'story.' The death of Te Fiti is a  _story_. Your new best friend is nothing of the sort. "That must have been quite the dream, wasn't it? Have you told Gramma Tala about it yet?"

The word 'dream' is even worse than the word 'story.'

"No," Your lip drops. You were  _going_  to, but now you don't want to. Story. Dream. Mom and Papa are supposed to be the first ones to believe you when you tell them about this sort of stuff – they liked hearing about how you and  _Kalana_  became friends, after all. Why is  _this_  any different?

But for some reason, it is. You think it might be an adult thing, like marriage and being Chief is. Gramma is super old and therefore an adult – and a lover of stories besides. You can't tell her this.

… But you  _might_  be able to show her.

Just like that, your spirits are lifted. You kiss your mother's cheek and run the length of the island in search of Gramma. You don't find her, but this doesn't discourage you. The ocean will still be there tomorrow, and you can show Gramma then.

Tomorrow.

* * *

 

Gramma cackles when you drag her down to the shore, looking at you like she knows something you don't. You complain that Papa and Mom don't believe you, and she laughs even harder.

"Oh, Moana," she says when you ask what's so funny – whatever she says next is cut off by another wave of hysterical laughter. Everyone thinks your Gramma is crazy and freaky when she cackles like this. You only smile, because it's as familiar as Mom's cooking and Papa's hugs.

You arrive at the water and sweep your arms out wide.

"Ocean," you call, "I'm baaaack!"

The water licks your ankles. You giggle. It must remember you. It must be greeting you. The ocean is a friend of yours, and you are a friend to the ocean.

"I brung Gramma here to meet you, so say hello!"

"Brought," corrects Gramma, and she too is watching the ocean in fascination.

The tide rises and falls. It is steady. Constant. How can Papa say that the ocean is unstable and unpredictable when there is such a thing as tides?

"Ooooccceeeaaaannn! Don' be r–r–r... Gramma, what's the word for when someone is being a mean bum?"

Gramma, unsurprisingly, giggles to herself. "Rude. Who taught you  _those_  words, Moana?"

" _Nooo onneee_ ," you sing. You two laugh like you are sharing a secret; you think that maybe you are. You return your attention to your new friend least it thinks you're ignoring it. You aren't. You wouldn't. "Ocean, c'mon! Don't make Gramma wait! It's  _rude_!" You chide. The ocean does not open its arms to hug you. The waves wash onto the shore. You frown. Maybe it can't see you? "Hey! Don't be rude! Hey!"

"Moana – "

"No, Gramma!" You interrupt, fists at your side. Your face feels hot. "It's making you wait. It shouldn't make you wait! Ocean!  _Ocean,_ say hello! You – you  _have to_ say hello,"

The tides are constant. This is not a relief anymore. An albatross cries out somewhere in the distance. The ocean is steady and gentle and it is not rising to greet you like it did two days ago. Something deflates inside of you. To Gramma, you say, "...it must be tired," and hope that you are right, "Should we come back later?"

Gramma places a hand on your shoulder. She agrees, "We'll come back tomorrow," and her voice is so very gentle that you are reassured entirely.

Tomorrow.

* * *

 

(You come back to the ocean the next day. You call and call and call, feeling vaguely like an albatross yourself, and the ocean –

The ocean does not respond.)

* * *

 

You visit in private afterwards. You steal moments from your very busy day and scurry down to the shore, where you sit in the shallows with tiny shells between your thumb and forefinger and tell your oldest friend all about your day. You hope that one day it will respond. It will have to eventually. You only have to be patient and persistent.

The waves comfort you with sound even if they're not doing your hair, so that's all the encouragement you need to stay. It has been a hard day of dancing and weaving and harvesting. Gramma offered a reprieve, but it was brief, and though you appreciated it, you're still pretty exhausted.

You return your small shell to the vast ocean, keeping up a steady stream of chatter.

(You have learned a lot about steady streams.)

"– and don't get me wrong: I love Papa, he's the greatest man in the world, no doubt about it. There's just – sometimes he is just so – so – so –" You scream in wordless frustration. It feels good. The ocean doesn't offer verbal–condolence, but it doesn't judge, either; you can make it work. "He doesn't understand that I'm not – that it isn't  _me_ , you know? I  _love_  my people and my island but – but – isn't there something  _more_  out there? There's so much more to be concerned about than  _coconut tree groves_  and –"

You are nine years old. It has been five years since the ocean last laughed with you. It won't be like that forever, though. You know it won't – you'll share a precious moment with it once again, you just have to wait for it.

Any time now.

Any time at all.

* * *

 

You are ten when your Papa catches you at the shore. He's spitting mad, of course, swelling twice his usual side, yelling on and on about how he thought you were "over this fascination," and about how "you knew about that a future chief couldn't afford to be distracted with such things," and that "this island  _needs_  you, Moana, you need to  _focus on it_."

Two months later, when it's the twentieth time he's caught you, he barely raises his voice at all. You know that he is disappointed anyway – he's getting better at communicating that with a single look these days. "Talking with the ocean again?" he doesn't–ask. Asking implies that he wants an answer, and historically, that's never worked out for either of them.

But you can't just  _not_ saying anything, so you scuff your feet and mutter, "Yes."

He is leading the way back to your hut, angry shoulders and tense back. He doesn't turn back to slant a look your way.

"Has it talked back yet?"

Ah. There it is. You were expecting this, which is why it doesn't hurt as much. When Papa isn't giving you a look – and what a sharply disappointed one it is, enough to give teacups piglets the worst of nightmares – he is saying something sharp. Mom tells you that you're too much like your father. That you both have skulls like coconuts; too stubborn and mulish, unable to accept criticism or learn when someone gives us advice.

You disagree. You  _can_  be taught, granted that your teacher knows what they're doing and that you're  _interested_ in learning. The last one is important. Very important.

For example, if your Papa was interested in teaching you how to sail, you'd be a dutiful student. As he does not want to teach you that, you'll... continue to be a dutiful student, because learning how to look after your people isn't a duty you would ever approach with anything  _less_  than one–hundred–and–ten percent effort, but as evidence suggests, you'd be a distracted one.

"No," you say, and you can't help but send one last pleading look back at the deceptively calm waters behind you. Because it has to be a deception, right? Except, there is no blob of water watching you go. A weight settles on your chest and you are sure it will never shift. "But that isn't going to stop me from coming down here."

Papa stops.

You bump into his back, stumble, then plant yourself like a tree.

He turns around.

" _Moana_ ,"

"No," You interrupt, impressed by your own nerve. "Papa, there is more to the world than the reef!"

"Moana, that is enough," Your father barks, nostrils flaring, "We will have this conversation in the morning. I am too tired to hear your nonsense of – of travelling beyond the reef, of sailing into the horizon. This island is your home; it's about time you started treating it like one."

"But Papa–"

"Enough. I have said all that needs to be said on this subject. Now, come! Your mother is worried sick about you; dinner is cold."

What is there for you to say about that? You duck your head, a scolded child, and shuffle after your father's angry figure. When you arrive home, Mom greets you with a hug and a press of her forehead against yours. "I was worried," she says, petting your hair.

You smile at her. There is something thick in the back of your throat. It could be sap. Or general unhappiness. Either one. "Yeah, I – heard. I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to…" To what? To go down to the shore and talk to the ocean? Of course you meant to. You've been doing it for years. You can't  _lie_  to your mother – you have no desire to, but you don't want her to worry either.

It is becoming a theme in your life – compromise, that is. Breaking a situation in half and giving yourself the smaller piece. Would that make you a better chief or not? You really can't tell. You know what the answer is likely to be. You don't have a good track record with thinking the way a Chief should; at least according to your father, who would  _know._

When the meal is finished and you are staring up at the roof during a time when you should be sleeping, most of your energy is going into rigorously not–thinking about the water you can hear from your hut, which is in the center of the island.

At the start, everything was ocean.

But that isn't quite the case anymore.

You close your eyes so tight it hurts and keep your green, earthly island in the front of your mind.

As soon as you fall into a deep sleep, however, you dream that you are sailing across the deep blue seas, your hair behind you and your senses full of seawater. You are laughing. When you turn your head slightly to the right, there is a wave – no, a blob, a moving blob.

The blob gives you a seashell.

* * *

 

You wake up. You go to the ocean. It does not give you a seashell.

You begin to – doubt, perhaps.

* * *

 

You dance with Gramma and the stingrays. She asks, "Has the ocean said anything to you lately?"

She isn't picking on you. Gramma never would. Her faith hurts more a pointed insult could.

You press your lips together. "The ocean can't speak, Gramma, don't be crazy." You can feel her surprise. Your indignation rises. You're eleven now, is it not believable for you to be finished with delusions? You're focused. Is that so – so surprising? "I'm over that. It's done. I know better, see?" You stare out at the water, pointedly saying nothing to it, as if that will erase the memories your grandmother has of you sitting on this very shore, begging the ocean to make a sign that what happened to you wasn't a stupid dream.

Gramma pauses. Her eyes are soft and sad on you, but you ignore it, dancing steadily on as if you haven't said anything strange. Because you haven't. If anything, you have said something astoundingly normal. No need for such a reaction. Then: "You and I know better than most that just because something can't speak doesn't mean it has nothing to say, Moana."

She almost sounds disappointed. Luckily for you, you're used to disappointment by now. You'll never be the perfect daughter or the perfect granddaughter, but at least you can be a reliable chief. Nowhere in that occupation is an explorer. Or a dreamer. Or a girl with a seashell and a friend in the ocean.

_Nowhere._

Your chin trembles, so you bite down on the inside of your cheek and dance; your Hula lessons with your grandmother are the peak of calm during your hectic days. You need them. You can't storm away in a huff. You can't. It wouldn't be chief–like anyway.

* * *

 

The ocean never talks to you or plays with you, but that doesn't squash the yearning within you to explore it. As soon as your Papa realizes this, he's – well, he's none too pleased, so you try to keep it under wraps. You succeed most of the time, too.

Thing with that though, is that there are times where you inevitably… slip up? The people –  _your_  people love you, almost as if you are their daughter as much as you are your father's daughter and future chief, and once your Papa recruits them, you learn to keep a tight lid on your –

Your –

Ambition? Dream? Delusion?

 _Whatever_  it is, you lock it away and bury it deep. Your uncles and aunties keep you busy with lessons, your friends keep you from the beach, your cousins nark on you when you stare "too longingly" in the wrong direction – Vaiana, namely, was responsible for your three–week–grounding in one instance. Everyone conspires to keep you from sailing. If anything, it makes the secret urge to leave even bigger.

You love your home. You love your people. Your island is beautiful, a paradise, but you are adamant in the belief that there is more out there. And as long as you believe this, there is nothing anyone can do to smother your desire.

Your want is as vast and unpredictable and steady as the ocean itself. You smile for father and mother and your people and when the moon rises and the currents cool, you dip your heels in the water, Pua in your lap, and – and wish for an opportunity. For the courage.

* * *

 

Years go by.

Your father shows you the stones. You begin to believe in one cause – his cause – more than your own. You are grounded. Rooted. Toes curling into the rich soil of your island. You are beginning to think that you are here to stay, and no longer feel  _trapped_  by that thought.

(A lie. You take on the mentoring aspect of your training, acting as a wise guide for the younger generation; there can be no doubt of your devotion and love for your people and your island. You want whats best for everyone and everything. This is home, and you'd want it to prosper even if you weren't in line to be Chief. It's an honor to lead.

But still – there is a feeling of stagnancy, like you are losing something big and important by planting yourself here. By plating yourself at  _all._ It doesn't go away.)

The water still sings for you. You are getting better at ignoring it.

… and then Gramma Tala shows you the cave.

Every desire you have squashed washes over you in an instant, and you are swept away with how deep your  _need_ to voyage goes – all the way back to your ancestors, apparently. You were a voyager. You  _are_  a voyager, perhaps the only one left. It is a proud past. It deserves respect.

You want to be the one to respect it.

And then the ocean  _comes back_. Not that it ever truly  _left_  but that doesn't mean that it was, you know,  _there; b_ ut suddenly, suddenly, it's with you again.  _Glowing_. A ball of unforgiving ocean, rising above the cliff, hanging and unassuming and acting as if it wasn't there when you thought you were going out of your damn mind, wasting away at the shore as you  _talkedbeggedpleadedcried_  at it.

You have a bug in the back of your throat.

Gramma says things like, "I was there that day," and "the ocean  _chose_  you," but you don't hear any of it.

The ocean is standing –  _standing_ – before you.

You reach out your hand and think, I thought it was a dream.

When you say it aloud, you aren't surprised when Gramma sends you this – this  _look_ , like perhaps she is disappointed, maybe not so much as with you as with  _herself_. As if she's looking back on how she acted with this and knows that she could have done more to help. This is an unusual turn of events for you –  _not_  being the subject of disappointment, that is, but so far this entire night has been one absurdity after another. Truth be told, none of it has been overly unpleasant. This is just one not–unpleasant absurdity in a basket of 'em.

You extend your hand to touch the ocean; the ocean meets you halfway.

You're not crazy. You weren't dreaming. Your island is dying, the world is about to end, and you're too happy that the ocean  _chose_  you to fully grasp that.

* * *

 

Father doesn't believe you. Unsurprising. Disappointing, crushing, devastating, potentially-apocalyptic, but – unsurprising.

Gramma's walking stick though?

... You know that people grow old, and that old people die for some mysterious reason that we call 'old age', but your grandmother – she is different. She has always been different. She knows more, she guides you, she is – you have never been without your Gramma. Never. You don't want to be.

She is so frail and, and _old_ on her bed, has she always been this old? No. No, it must be the lighting; it's making her look so sick and sallow and pale and weary. Bad lighting is all. And then you hold her hands, and you think you could count every single bone there, and a deep nausea settles in your stomach.You have never been without her.

She presses the Heart into your palm. “Go. Go _._ The ocean _chose you._ ”

“Gramma…”

“You need to find Maui, grab him by the ear, and tell him: ' _I am Moana of Motunui, and you will board my boat, sail across the sea, and restore the heart of Te Fiti._ _’_ ” 

“Not now. I can’t...I can’t _leave_ you.”

“There is nowhere you could go where I can't be with you.”

And that –

– she talks as if she has already  _left_  –

You run. Your Gramma asked that you sail out, find a lost demigod, and save the world, so that is what you're going to do. You pack frantically, throwing food and extra clothes and hygiene things in a basket and hope that you're doing this right. You can't see past the tears in your eyes. You don't know what you're doing.

You'll do it anyway.

All of a sudden, Mother is at the doorway. She's sobbing as she hugs you close to her chest – she doesn't want you to go. She eases back and helps you pack anyway, stifling her noises through pure stubbornness as she ties up your food stock in a neat bow.

She brings you into her arms again.

You don't want to leave.

(You  _have_  to.)

"Look after Pua," you ask her. You won't be here to do it. Someone needs to make sure he's looked after.

"I will," she sniffles. You decide that you never want to make your mother cry again. You know that there is no way for you to do this. "Look after  _yourself_."

You don't know how to reply. You tell her that you will, but you aren't sure. Braving the oceans again after nearly drowning the first time – you didn't even get past the barriers! – is a really daunting prospect. For the first time in your life, you don't want to sail.

 _'Saving the world,'_  you remind yourself, but it isn't the abstract "world" that you're seeing when you close your eyes. It's Gramma, dying, begging you to do this one thing for her. Your head hurts already.

Save the world?

You're supposed to save the  _world_? You don't even know how to  _sail_.

"Ocean –" you begin, pausing to take a shuddering breath. It's difficult to remember that you can talk to the ocean and not feel silly about it, but – desperate times. You continue. "Ocean, I need – I need help. Tell me… tell me how to get past the reef." Tell me how to  _do this_.

The ocean doesn't respond.

Gods, it never does.

The canoe is unsteady on the waves, and you aren't getting seasick, but you almost want to be. Just for something normal.

The ocean glows. An astoundingly beautiful, luminescent, tattooed stingray passes under your canoe and streaks a glowing path through the reef. The tears you were working so hard to choke back come back with a vengeance, and a newer sort of grief rips open a wound in you.

( _When I die, I'll come back as one of these... otherwise I got the wrong tattoo!_ )

You adjust the sail, grab the oar, and follow the stingray past the reef.

The storm is vicious. The waves crash, crash,  _crash_  into you: there is no time for you to catch your breath before you're thrown under again. At some point, you start crying. You're so stressed and afraid that it doesn't hurt your pride at all, but it does hurt your lungs. When you cry, you gasp, and you don't need to inhale anymore seawater right now–

A wave towers over you.

You have one glancing thought before it hits you, and it is directed at the very force that knocks you unconscious:

_Why aren't you helping me?_

* * *

 

You meet Maui. He's nothing like you thought he would be. He's rude, he's a liar, he's  _slimy_ , and you know if your grandmother were here, she would have convinced him in one sentence of the righteousness of this quest. That's the problem. She isn't here, and you're just you (and you don't even know who  _that is_ ), and you don't know what  _you're_  doing – so you're pretty sure don't have any right to tell him what to do.

Not that that'll stop you. You need to learn how to sail, prove to yourself that you  _can_ , and you need to save Motunui. You need to respect Gramma's last request. Maui will help. There is no other option.

The ocean wraps you in its arms and carries you to your canoe.

Again. And again. And  _again._  It even carries – throws, really – Maui back to your canoe. You feel  _proud_. You say, "The ocean is a friend of mine," as if you have never doubted it. You high five the ocean like you've been doing it for years. You are surging with confidence; the ocean is a friend of yours, and Maui  _will_  return the Heart to where it belongs, and you'll learn how to navigate these oceans like a _master._

Easy!

* * *

 

Not so easy.

The Kakamora happen.

You scream at the ocean for help.

It doesn't  _listen_.

For once, Maui says something that doesn't make you want to scream They take Heihei. You take him  _back_  and leave devastation in your wake, and you do it all by yourself, because apparently you can't even count on the 'Hero of All' to save the world these days.

The ocean doesn't help. You don't  _need_  it.

* * *

 

Ocean knocks Maui down with a blow dart, and your steel resolve to never–rely–on–anyone–or–anything–ever–again crumbles. Instantly.

"Thanks," you say, pleasantly surprised, slightly annoyed. You could have used a watery–hand with the Kakamora, but  _whatever_. You'll take what you can get, and learning how to wayfair is infinitely more important than defeating a bunch of coconut–pirates anyway.

You turn to Maui. He doesn't look happy. You're getting used to that. "If you can talk, you can teach. Go ahead! I'm listening!"

* * *

 

_If the ocean is so smart, why doesn't it just return the Heart to Te Fiti itself? Or–hey, give me back my fishhook?_

_… But no, I'm sure it made the right decision with you..._

_So why did your people send you, an eight year old girl who doesn't even know how to sail?_

_As the chief's daughter, shouldn't you be kissing babies? What are you doing here?_

_I just want to know why the ocean chose you._

"The ocean chose me for a  _reason,_ " you tell him (...him?) and stare at the expanse of blue from the top of the mountain. You don't see any entrance to Lalotai. You don't strictly 'see' a lot of things; not the same way other people do. This isn't going to  _stop you_ , exactly, because it never has and it never will, but you are distinctly aware of how out of your depth you are.

Maui appears on the mountain, and you turn around, set your shoulders, and screw your head into place.

Save the world, huh?

You've got this.

* * *

 

Maui has his fishhook back. He's willingly teaching you how to wayfair. You're learning how to measure the stars and feel the current at your fingertips. You keep your destination in your mind. You begin to learn where to go by knowing where you've been. It is slow–going, but the most rewarding things are the ones you fight long and hard for, and you want to know how to wayfind so bad that you don't mind the stretch of time.

You don't want to miss a thing.

It's midday. The sun is high in the sky, there is breeze catching in the sails and propelling the boat forward, and it is with Maui's comforting weight beside you that you steer the canoe in the direction you are destined to be.

You dip your hand into the water. "It's getting… warmer? No, it's – colder. It's colder."

Maui raises his eyebrow. "You sure? You don't want to be wishy–washy about this, Princess."

You scowl at him briefly for that – you aren't a  _princess_  – but put aside yelling at him. You focus on your hand. You're becoming more sensitive to changes in the water these days, but you struggle sometimes. That's okay. You're fine with asking for help. "Colder," You decide, voice firm. "It's definitely getting colder."

Maui hums; an absent–minded, very human sound, and dips his hand in. It took you a few long minutes to figure out the change – it takes him about five seconds. "Well done," he congratulates, shaking his hand as he pulls it out of the water. "You're getting better at this."

You grin so wide it hurts. "I've got a good teacher." He grins back. It's kind of nice having a friend that talks back all the time.

You dip your hand back into the ocean to reassure yourself that you're right, that you're really doing this, and let Maui mentor you. You are a fantastic student. This is a subject that interests you.

The Heart still remains in your possession and Te Kā is still an issue, but this – wayfinding with Maui – makes all those problems seem so distant.

You  _really_  like having a friend.

* * *

 

A storm hits. You are so out of your league that you're in a different sport altogether. All you can do is scramble around to anchor the ropes while Maui keeps the boat from overbalancing. You can't sail right now. You don't have the experience to deal with this type of weather. It stings, but it's the truth.

When a truly terrible wave towers over you, you have flashbacks to your first two attempts at sailing. You take a deep breath in, which doesn't help as much as you hoped it would. You know that it won't matter if that wave _does_  decide to come down on you. If the water separates you from your boat, that'll be it. Game over.

Maui is wrapping the rope around his arm and glaring at the wave as if his stubborn willpower could seize it in its tracks. You're glad to have him on your side. The ocean is powerful, but he managed to pull islands up from under it anyway. He's beat the sea before. He can beat it again, surely he can do it aga–

The wave crashes down. You're swept away.

_Again._

You go under, get hit, get hit, come up, gethitgeth _itgethit_ , come up long enough to see Maui swimming over to you, and get hit again just as you're about to shout. The water goes straight to your lungs. You go under and keep one hand fisted around Gramma's necklace to keep the Heart safe. The ocean is relentless attacking you. For the third time in your life, you understand your Papa when he said that the ocean was unforgiving. It obviously didn't have an ounce of loyalty in it.

Your chest is screaming – you didn't realize it could. Your vision is just beginning to blur when Maui's big paw catches you under your armpit. He pulls you out of the water and throws you onto the canoe with the same ease he once threw you off with. As you hack up the liquid that doesn't belong in your lungs, Maui takes control of the boat and battles the storm.

As he's doing so, he shouts back, "Princess, how're you doin'?"

"Fi–" you pause to cough, "Fine! Focus on the boat!"

"Right on," we brace for another wave. The difference is that you come out of it, hanging onto the boat by your fingernails, while Maui is smiling so viciously he could take a bite out of something. You expect it when he shouts: "CHEE HOO!"

Between Maui and the ocean, you have to say that you're in support of his victory.

That said, you turn to the water and shout, "What are you  _doing_?! Don't you want us to deliver the Heart?!"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm scolding Ocean!" You bark back. "Ocean! We're on your side, you should be helping  _us_!"

The canoe is nearly capsized in response. Lightning flashes. Maui is almost certainly raising his eyebrows in your direction right now. "It doesn't seem to be listening!"

You scream wordlessly. Story of your  _life_. "IT NEVER DOES!"

Maui makes this sardonic noise – you know that whatever he will say next will disagree with you  _big time_. Luckily, he's cut off by the presence of another tsunami–like wave. He squares his shoulders. "Focus on me, Princess!" He roars past the wind, "You'll wanna know what to do in this situation for future reference!"

He has a point.

Although the wave  _terrifies_  you, you stand on wobbly feet behind him and watch the way Maui works the boat. He knows what he is doing. You trust him.

The wave hits, and the canoe emerges on the other side of it. You're gripping Maui's arm so tightly he's trying to shake you off, but he must see you trembling, because he eventually decides to leave you.

You face off against another wave.

You get hit.

You  _don't_  go down.

* * *

 

"So," Maui drawls when the storm clears. The water around you is deceptively calm. You're annoyed with it at the moment. "Afraid of rough seas?"

You shoot him a sullen look. He laughs at it, utterly unaffected. "It's not funny."

"It kind of is! I mean, you want to be a wayfinder but you're afraid of harsh conditions? What? How does that even make *sense*?"

"Stop laughing! It isn't funny!"

Not even a jab to his stomach will stop him. You cross your arms and glare, but Maui's never been intimidated by you, just like you've never been intimidated by him. You're both immune to each other. That's annoying you as well.

"Maui!"

"Okay, okay, chill out! I'll stop laughing!" You wait. He doesn't. You kick him in the shin; it does nothing to him, but it makes  _you_  feel grand. "It's just – it's absurd! It's absurd! You can't be a master wayfinder if you can't deal with a little  _storm_."

You swallow. " _That_  was little?" Gods, why?

He nods, wiping a tear from his eye. "Oho yeah, that was miniature. I've faced off against worse storms before. That? Was nothing. Doesn't make the top fifty."

"... It doesn't?"

"No  _way_. Scariest thing that happened was when you went overboard – you're so little, I thought the ocean was gonna swallow you right up. Insane, right?" He grins at you. You can't bring yourself to grin back. "The ocean's your friend or – or whatever. It wasn't going to seriously hurt you."

You stare.

"... Right?"

You stare more, just to prove a point.

"Oh, come on, kid. You said it yourself. 'The ocean is a friend of mine'? 'The ocean chose me for a reason?' Or did you forget when the waves got a little rough?" You look away. There's an awkward pause. Then: "... I'll be damned. Really? Friend to the Ocean and Chosen One is afraid of rough seas? How did  _that_  happen?"

You bristle and snap back, "It's none of your business!"

Instantly, Maui raises his hands. "Hey now, Miss Testy, don't get sharp with me. I was just asking."

"Yeah, well – argh!" You don't actually have any follow up, so you have to harrumph and stomp over to the hold full of your food. You shift Heihei out of the way, pull out a mango, and sit yourself down to angrily eat. The mango is a bit too soft. You deal with it.

There is an awkward silence as you eat and Maui decides whether he wants to address the apparent landmine he stepped on or if he wants to pretend nothing happened. From past experience, it's much more likely that he'll chose the latter option. You don't know if you want that. You don't know if you want to talk about it either. It feels silly – you _know_  it's silly, that's why he was laughing. It's  _stupid_.

The entire boat tips precariously when Maui sits with you. "Okay," He sounds like he's doing you a favour, which is  _insane_ , "I'll bite. Tell me all about it, Princess."

"There's nothing to tell."

"The ocean's chosen one is afraid of the ocean. There has  _got_ to be a story  _somewhere_ in the middle of that mess."

"I'm  _not_  afraid of the ocean. I swim in it just fine. We're friends. Pals. Buddies."

Maui says sarcastically, "But you  _are_  afraid of storms and the way they make the ocean, which _I guess_  means that you are, in fact, scared of the ocean,"

Does he have to make it sound so bad? "I'm  _not_  –"

"An angry ocean is still the ocean, buttercup," Maui interrupts sardonically. "In fact, I'd say it's pretty much most of the ocean; storms are a constant when you're at sea. If anything, there has been a disturbing  _lack_  of storms during this voyage."

That's unsettling. It must show on your face.

Maui raises his eyebrow and simpers: "Oh yeah, not scared of the ocean at all, so that's why you look like you're going to be sick."

"I... get seasick."

"I have been travelling with you for months and you have an iron stomach. Besides that, did you really think that excuse would help you? The ocean's chosen one isn't afraid of the ocean, don't worry! But she  _does_  get seasick."

Yeah, but at least it isn't the truth... right? Not that having that misconception hanging over your head wouldn't chafe, but  _still_. At least it isn't the truth, which is embarrassing and you hope to never have to confront it; if that isn't possible, then you hope to delay it till the last possible moment.

"...Look, Princess. Buttercup.  _Moana._ " You look up. He's frowning at you. Great. "You want to be a wayfinder? Fine. Grand, even! I'm happy to teach you, and you're an – alright student, I suppose. Thing is, if you're afraid of the ocean, then I don't really think this is the  _career_  for you –"

"I'm not," You hiss, "afraid of the ocean!"

Maui throws his hands up. "You're  _impos_ –"

"What I'm afraid of is – is  _drowning_!"

"– _sible_ … really?" He tilts his head at you. He looks completely stunned by this. "Drowning?"

"Drowning."

"How – how'd  _that_  happen?"

You feel your mood sour further. Maui is peering at you curiously, as if he could see the answer laid across your forehead. "It happened when I nearly drowned."

"What, when you were a kid?"

 _'In the past three months. The first two were in the same week. I haven't forgotten.'_ You'd sound like a kid. You can't say that, so you have to shrug. "Feels like it," You have grown since you first left Motunui. Older. Wiser. Still a child with much to learn, with many ways to better herself, but you are different. At the very least, the person you are now would have made the person you were then  excited. That is perhaps the greatest compliment you could reward yourself with.

"Maui… can we talk about this… later? I don't really want to –"

"Sure, kiddo, but don't think that you're getting out of this. This conversation  _will_  be conversed. I'm not letting you off that easy." You have to smile. Maui is – Maui is good. Not the way you thought he would be, but that just makes him better. You know him better than anyone else in the entire Oceania. How awesome is that?

"Lookin' forward to it, old man. Now!" You jump to your feet and rub your hands together, charging towards the sails determinedly. "Where do we go from here?"

"Nowhere, 'cause I gotta eat before I do  _anything_. Have you drunk any water, Chosen One? Last thing you wanna do is –"

"– become hydrated, yes, I know."

"So you did drink?"

"Uh, well, not technically–"

"'Not technically'? You either  _have_  or you  _haven't_ , there is no 'technically'–"

"Maybe in this instance there is."

"You can't technically drink water, dumbo,"

"Says who?  _You_? I'll technically drink water if I want to technically drink water!"

* * *

 

The stars are beautiful and familiar. There is no current tonight, so you and Maui settle in for a chilly night's rest. You tell Ocean goodnight out of habit, and take the familiar shine in the water as a reply even though no formless shape rises from the depths.

Maui asks, with no attempt at subtlety: "Interested in telling me about your drowning thing now or should I pretend to forget about that until a later date?"

You're tempted to take him up on that offer. As it stands, you're just tired –  _exhausted_  – enough that your common sense is a bit blurred. The smell of salt water is becoming a comforting scent; when you close your eyes and dream, it's now a coin–flip of whether you will dream of rolling green hills or rolling blue waves. The Oceania has become as much a home to you as Motunui.

"I nearly drowned a couple of times. Big waves are kinda creepy. No big deal," You shrug. "I'll get over it. I need to if I want to be a proper wayfinder," And you  _do_  want to be a proper wayfinder. You want to be the best damn wayfinder the Islands have ever encountered: past, present and future.

Maui sighs, "Yeah, I got the  _why_. I'm curious about the  _when_."

Common sense, blurred. "Oh, like a few months ago, give or take. Like I said: no big deal, I'll get over i–"

" _What_?" When Maui sits up, he rocks the entire canoe. You're forced to sit up just to keep your balance. Beneath the surface, Heihei squawks as he's thrown into a wall. "A few  _months_  ago? Are you kidding?"

"Like I said," you repeat, blinking as if stunned. "No big dea–"

"Uh, no! I mean,  _yes_! Yes big deal! Major deal! Are you  _crazy_?" Before you can answer, Maui is shaking his head. "No, what am I saying? Of course you're crazy, we're voyaging across the sea to deliver a tiny stone to a goddess that turns into an island sometimes. Of course you're crazy."

"Te Fiti is  _always_  a mountain. If anything, she's a mountain that turns into a goddess sometimes."

"She's a mountain goddess; let's just leave it at that. So what you're telling me is that you nearly drowned a few months ago and you decided to sail across the ocean? Are you – is that why the ocean chose  _you_? Because you were the only one across all the Islands that was _messed up_  enough in the head to  _accept_?"

"The ocean chose me for a reason!"

"I have yet to figure out what that reason is, kiddo, I'm beginning to doubt that there was one at all."

"Hey–!"

"We aren't talking about that, not really. We're talking about how you apparently nearly drowned a few moons ago and  _still_  accepted a quest that would force you through an entire ocean of bad for several months! Seriously, what is wrong with you!"

You cross your arms. "It isn't like I asked for any of this!"

"You're the Chief's daughter, and you're telling me that you couldn't say 'no thanks, I'll pass on this one' to a life–threatening quest?"

You can't believe you need to say it. "The ocean  _chose_  me. I didn't volunteer for this. ...And I didn't ask to be nearly–drowned, either!"

You don't mention that you  _need_ to do this, that sailing is all you have ever wanted to do since you were four and the ocean gifted you seashells. That this world–saving quest is more like a side–show for you and your destiny. Your true goal is to master wayfinding and lead your people onto new land. You can't do that if all the land is dead. Restoring Te Fiti is more like a stepping stone to the things that  _really_  matter to you – the growth and preservation of your people.

Maui gives you a bewildered look.

"I'm sure sailors nearly drown all the time, and you don't send them back to land! They have a job to do so they do it. Why does it matter if I get a bit, what, nervous around rough waters–"

"Because you weren't raised to do this," Maui interrupts. He looks annoyed and sounds even worse. "You don't have the training to pull through this trauma, you great big idiot!"

"Oh, name calling, real mature."

"You deserve it! What happens when you're travelling alone and you run into a storm – because you will. It's inevitable. What'll happen? You'll freeze. You'll choke. You'll  _die_."

You quieten. Your indignation remains, of course it does, it's like Maui doesn't know you at all. Something as insignificant as fear would never keep you down. It never has before.

… but you get what he's trying to say.

You cross your arms. "And what do you suggest we do about it, Oh Maui, Demigod of the Wind and Sea?"

Maui claps and rubs his hands together. His grin is completely carnivorous. "You leave that up to me, buttercup. Go to sleep, I'll watch the sea. No offense," This is said to the ocean surrounding you. The ocean doesn't respond. You could have warned him that it wouldn't.

"You aren't going to sleep?"

"I'll do it later. I have some planning to do."

Because that isn't ominous.

* * *

 

It was ominous.

"The world is dying and you want to lead us  _into_  storms? What is wrong with you!?"

"Absolutely nothing! Watch me, kid, you  _really_  don't wanna miss this!" Maui jerked the sail with a harsh motion of his arm, catching you distractedly when you are nearly thrown overboard, which is the absolute last place you want to go. "Come on, Maui versus the great, vicious ocean! Round 2, let's go!  _CHEE HOO_!"

The wind is tearing at the sails. You might have to hold down your hair just to keep it attached to your skull. Directly into Maui's ear, you howl, "You're insane!"

But you're laughing, so he probably doesn't take you seriously.

(The wave grows ever taller overhead. Maui is shouting at it; you feel his shoulder pressed against yours. Mimicking his exact motions from weeks ago, you pull the sail. Thunder rolls not a second before lightning forks across the sky. The rain is falling hard enough to leave bruises.

You lick your salt chapped lips, square your shoulders, and shout: "I AM MOANA FROM MOTUNUI AND YOU CANNOT HURT ME!" to the high heavens and the higher waves.

The water crashes down on your boat, and you rock on your feet but do not fall. Indomitable. You are Moana from Motunui, daughter to Chief Tui, granddaughter to Tala Waialiki, and you have never been and will never be afraid of a bit of  _water_.)

* * *

 

"I know why the ocean chose you now. It needed someone to explore it again. It needed _you_."

* * *

 

The ocean is a friend to you, but more importantly, you are a friend to the ocean. Since the beginning, the ocean has had one paramount need: To return the Heart to Te Fiti. Everything that it has done to help you has been done with that quest in mind; finding you when you were three, finding you again when you were seventeen, shipwrecking you on Maui's island, keeping Maui and you on the same canoe – everything that it has done, it has done  _solely_  to keep you on the quest that you are doing.

But it has chosen the  _wrong person_.

You return the Heart to the ocean and  _beg_  for it to choose someone less selfish, less reckless, someone  _better_. Someone who knows what they're  _doing_.

... The thing is, though; when you decide to do something, you have this terrible, horrible, no good very bad habit of  _following through_  until the end, however vicious it proves to be. And though you hope and pray that the end of this won't be vicious, you know that it wouldn't really matter.

Gramma comes back for a brief moment. You hug her so hard you can pretend she's warm. She apologizes. You are glad that she has and wishes that she wouldn't – there is nothing you regret, apart from losing Maui to your own foolishness, and that was all on you. There is nothing for her to regret. She should be peaceful: you'll wrestle Te Kā yourself to ensure it.

Your ancestors visit as well. Your age–long identity crisis shifts a bit to the left and soothes your insides entirely. You even retrieve the Heart from the ocean floor. It's all absurd, in that not–unpleasant way that you've always associated with your grandmother. You love her so much. You feel her presence beneath your boat and beneath your breastbone with every breath you take. You know as well as you know the stars that she is with you, always. Still, you will miss her, even when you have her.

You sail back to Te Kā. You use every move in your arsenal that Maui taught you, and then you use everything that you know on top of that. Te Kā is a demon, humanoid in only the worst way, and she is so hollow that even as you narrowly dodge her molten lava, you feel an ache of empathy for her. She is so empty and so  _angry_.

Why? Why? Who hurt her?

Maui returns. He is reliable. You think you might cry when you see him. Demigod? No. Friend, best friend.  _Brother_. He has returned to you. He has  _forgiven_  you. You are not alone. You are miles and miles from home but you are not without family. In your heart, you have Grammy. In your mind, you have Father. In your hands, climbing Te Fiti's skin, you have your mother. In the sky, your brother.

The ocean, slicing you through the water and gently depositing you at the shore of the island. For once, you have your oldest friend in the world at your side, and you are not doubting it at all. The ocean is with you. The ocean needs you. You will help it, because the ocean is your friend, and Moana always helps friends who need it.

You are Moana from Motunui island, and you are not alone.

The entire island is…  _missing;_  hollow. There is a long moment of heart–stopping horror before it sinks in, and when you turn and see Te Kā's hollow eyes and gaping maw screaming in agony as she attacks Maui with desperate rage, there is no confusion. There is no hesitation. This makes sense. Of course it does.

Her heart was stolen. Her  _heart_. Her empathy, her compassion, her kindness – ripped away from her by the very mortal boy she gifted the power of semi–godhood to in the first place. Betrayed by the people she only ever wanted to share life with. She was violated by humankind's greed.

You do not blame her, no. You do, however, know what to do. You look Te Kā in the eyes and lower the Heart. To the ocean, you tell it: "Let her come to me."

The ocean parts for you, listens to your request without a moment's hesitation, and soon there is nothing between you and Te Kā except for shells and ocean floor. The water surrounding you are trembling walls of pressure, certified death should you fall, but you are not suffocated by them. You trust that the Oceania will not crush you. It does not want to hurt you.

Just like the lava demon charging at you doesn't want to hurt you.

No, it doesn't. Te Kā would have wanted to destroy you, yes, but you are not dealing with Te Kā.

This is Te Fiti, hollow and aching and heartless, yes, but Te Fiti nonetheless. Te Fiti would never hurt you. You look a demon in its molten eyes as it charges on all fours, and you are unafraid.

There is no reason to be anything else.

* * *

 

It works.

You're _awesome!_

* * *

 

Te Fiti is  _awe–striking_. There are no words for her. You are humbled to the soles of your feet when she smiles at you.  _Beautiful_ , you think, and you see the glittering blue of Ocean and the moss skin of Te Fiti, and you – you understand better. Why your ancestors traveled. It wasn't just about navigating the ocean. It was about finding home.

You press your forehead against Te Fiti's and don't pretend that you're not crying. Of course you are: you've just befriended the goddess and saved the damn world.  _Yeah, you're crying._  Who wouldn't be? You're going home soon. You can hug your Papa and show your mom that you're alright and Pua, you'll see Pua again. You'll see your people again. You'll see Motunui.

Home.

Maui helps you settle into your new boat. He looks uncomfortable, the same way you know he looks when he's trying to be sincere but he's struggling the spit the right combination of words out. At least he isn't a shark head with Maui–legs this time; maybe you'll be able to take him seriously.

(…Nah.)

"Kid – Moana.  _Moana_. I just… just wanted to say – you know, for all the – and the whole –" He makes an exploding motion around his fishhook here, "For giving me this old friend back – what I'm meaning to say is that… Mini Maui, he says is so much better –"

You can't resist. You clear your throat, slant a shit–eating grin in his direction, and drawl: "What I believe you're trying to say is 'thank you.'" Maui looks completely floored, but it's covered quickly with a large smile. The laughter wrinkles around his kind eyes deepen, and you're prepared when he gets you into a choke-hold and gives you the most violent noogie you have ever experienced.

He won't come with you to Motunui in a way that you will notice, but like Gramma Tala, you know that he will be watching you, looking after you in little ways. Eventually, you hope that he will settle with your people, because he sort of already is your people. He's yours now. Brother.

You say goodbye to Te Fiti, press your forehead against Maui's shortly before he shape shifts into a giant hawk, and push your boat out into the ocean. You pull Heihei out and hug him to your chest for comfort. Heihei tries to eat your hand. You look to the horizon and smile.

Beneath your boat, a large, tattooed stingray streaks through the water.

Without any warning, your boat travels faster, faster, faster until you're nearly skidding across the surface of the water. You scream in alarm at first – hello, the wind hasn't picked up at all, what's going on? – when you look down and notice the colour of the water around you. Clear blue.

The ocean – the ocean is propelling you home. Returning you to your family in the shortest time possible. You laugh, clutch Heihei tighter, and drip your hand into the ocean. There is a warm pressure that tightens around your palm, holding it, before letting go. Sincerely, you whisper, "Thank you, old friend."

This all feels like a dream that you never want to wake up from. The best part about it is, perhaps, the certainty that this is real. This happened. You have scars. Sunburn.  _Wind_ burn. You have new callouses and new knowledge and you can measure the stars and have kisses foreheads with Te Fiti herself.

If three year old Moana had any idea…

Ha.

She'd  _never_  believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing serious. I just came back from watching Moana, loved it, cried as the Disney-castle-loading-thing came on, and needed to write _something_ \-- never mind the quality of it. Nevertheless, I hope some of you find some enjoyment in this. Also, I apologize for the weird format in some places. I got lazy and italics was refusing me, so I improvised.


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